


Grief

by mistr3ssquickly



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, therapy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14660735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: We all arrive at grief differently.  It's important that we not travel alone.





	Grief

Luke disappears almost immediately after the briefing, isn't in the cavernous meeting room where Leia's talking in low tones with a small cluster of men easily forty years her senior, her face solemn and stern. He's not hanging around the _Falcon,_ either, when Han checks there, hasn't been through in a while, according to Chewbacca, but he _was_ there, hanging around with a squadron of self-styled pilots, so Han next goes looking for Luke among the men and women slated to commit suicide via Imperial space station in the coming hours. He finds the pilots but not Luke, doesn't want to come off as clingy when the their leader -- a Corellian, from his accent -- comes over to see if Han needs something, so he says he's just looking around and beats a hasty retreat, sauntering out into the cool glow of twilight, his hands in his pockets. 

He spots Luke standing just behind the main compound, his bright white tunic and trousers making him about as subtle as summer on Tatooine against the dark vines draped over every vertical surface. He's talking to someone, a man Han doesn't recognize but Luke must, the way they're standing close together, practically holding hands as they talk weirdly intimate, not the kind of thing Han's used to seeing between the men of Tatooine. They don't see him and he doesn't stick around long enough for that to change, instead returning to the artificial light of the base and joining a friendly game of sabacc that keeps him occupied until his eyes are refusing to stay open. 

The day following is one Han would erase from memory as quickly as he could if he knew how to, the shit he gets for trying to leave without dying almost as uncomfortable and awful as the praise he gets later for showing up and taking a few shots at an Imperial fighter, the medal they give him a cheap reward for a decision he made on a whim he can't explain to himself, let alone to Chewbacca when the big guy pesters him about it. It's stupid and awkward and at least _partly_ Luke's fault, but when he goes looking for the guy to fill his ear and maybe try to talk him out of doing _anything_ like that ever again, Luke is yet again nowhere to be found, the man he was talking to the night before conspicuously absent from the celebrations peppered across the new hidden base he's followed the Rebellion to, and that probably means something, but --

“You seen Luke anywhere?” he says when Luke's squadron leader -- Wedge, he said his name was, Han’s pretty sure -- spots him and comes over to say hello. “Been lookin’ for him everywhere, haven't found him yet.”

Wedge points in a generally westward direction, nodding. “He went into town,” he says. “Going in for a drink and a show, so far as I understood it.”

Which Han _immediately_ doesn't believe, but he says, “All right, thanks,” and leaves Wedge alone, turning his boots towards the dinky little settlement Wedge was doing a favor by calling it a town, only because it's a better lead than he's gotten anywhere else, and the thought of giving up grates on him, putting a frown on his face as he walks. 

Luke's not in any of the nicer pubs Han checks, unsurprisingly, given what happened to him the last time he walked into a place like that, isn't patronizing any of the greasy spoons, either, which _should_ mean he's not in town, or that he and his buddy found a secluded spot back on base together that Han somehow missed, but Han's gut tells him that's not it, not after Wedge _said_ Luke had gone out looking for entertainment of the carnal variety, and Han genuinely _cannot_ reconcile the mental image of the bright-eyed farmboy he knows patronizing a whorehouse, so he pokes his head into a few of the strip clubs tucked into the shadowier corners of the main road, doing an actual physical doubletake when he sees Luke inside one of them, the younger man standing right at the edge of a stage, watching a human woman undulate around a metal pole.

“Thought they were kidding when they said this's where I'd find you,” Han says by way of greeting as he joins Luke at the raised platform, the throb of the music and haze of smoke almost as disorienting as the barely covered dancer gyrating within an arm’s length of Luke's face. It's not the sleaziest strip joint he's ever visited, not by a long shot, but it's not great, either. A depressing haven for desperation more than anything else. Absolutely _not_ the sort of establishment Luke has any business being in at all, and certainly not _alone._

Luke doesn't look at him, but he lifts his right shoulder in a shrug, so Han at least knows he was heard over the music. He's watching the dancer with focused attention, but he doesn't look like he's enjoying the performance, especially. More like he's studying it, trying to figure it out, for all that it's nothing spectacular, the dancer's skill and enthusiasm both drifting towards the lower end of the scale.

“If you're thinkin’ about taking her place, pretty sure you could,” Han says, leaning in close enough that Luke should be the only one who can hear him. Not that he's all that concerned about hurting the dancer's _feelings_ or anything, but getting beat up for talking trash about somebody's unrequited crush in a seedy strip joint on an Outer Rim planet isn't Han's idea of a good time. “You're coordinated enough to pull it off. More’n she is.”

Luke sighs hard enough that Han can hear it, which takes some doing, loud as the music is, and shakes his head, handing over a substantial fistful of credits to the dancer as soon as the song ends, his expression awkwardly earnest, the secondhand embarrassment of watching the dancer accept the credits and Luke smile at her without blinking strong enough that Han is _genuinely_ pleased when Luke turns and walks towards the exit straight away, Han happy to fall into step behind him.

They walk a block together without speaking, the quiet between them uncomfortable and unnatural, thick with questions and impatience Han does his best to keep behind his teeth. He takes it as long as he can, really he does, sinking his hands into his pockets with a sigh that doesn't do anything to breathe out the awkwardness still thick in his throat, speaking only when he can't stand it anymore.

“That your first time goin’ to a skin show, kid?” he says.

Luke nods. “Yeah.”

Han chuckles mirthlessly. “Figured it had to be. That dance wasn't worth a quarter'a what you paid for it.” He looks at Luke sidelong, sighing again when Luke responds with little more than another shrug. “And just so’s you know, generosity won't help you get a date with most dancers you meet, either. If that's what you were goin’ for.”

“That wasn't --” Luke stops himself. His ears are bright red. “I just thought it'd be nice for her,” he says, “making more than usual. She was doing her best.”

He ducks away when Han reaches out to ruffle his hair, but he doesn't look especially annoyed by the gesture, sinking back into quietness as he and Han walk along, like he's not registering any of the sights or sounds around him. Which is fine; he's not missing much other than the scattered run-down alehouses and few depressing brothels, but his inattention isn't the best thing for his safety or longevity when he's in a neighborhood as bad as the one they're walking through, his chances of getting ambushed and mugged only amplified by his newfound soft spot for talentless strippers. Han adds it to his ever-growing mental list of Things to Mention Later and lets it go, watching Luke's back as they walk.

The room everyone's been calling the mess hall is decently empty when they return to what Han still can't quite believe the others are calling a base like they're _not_ joking, two older men he's seen around but doesn't know by name sitting over by the doorway, treating him and Luke both to little more than a glance when they walk in. Luke pours two glasses of water without asking if Han wants one, carries them over to the table at the far back corner of the room, Han's preferred spot, without saying a word, his unspoken request for Han to keep him company bringing up a mix of affection and unease to slide just beneath the surface of Han’s skin, the quiet of the room unsettling as he sits down opposite Luke, watching the younger man sip his water and avoid eye contact.

“Should, ah. See if the princess can swing us an assignment to Corellia,” he says when the silence starts to get to him, but asking _are you all right_ feels equal parts inane and overly intimate, making him uncomfortable even without him giving it voice. “Couple'a dance clubs up where I'm from that you might like. If that's your thing.”

“It’s not,” Luke says, tracing the rim of his glass with the tip of his middle finger, the motion smooth and hypnotic, like the pulse and flow of the sea. “My friend Biggs liked dancers. He always wanted me to go with him to see his favorite girls, up where he was stationed for flight training. I was going to. Go with him, that is. After I'd joined the Academy. We were going to go out and see a show together. A couple of shows. We'd promised each other we would.”

His voice is soft and thick like it's caught in his throat, his gaze fixed steadfastly on the plain tabletop between them. He swallows a few times but he doesn't say anything more, doesn't really need to, Han's experience with loss filling in the blanks for him just fine. He reaches over without thinking and puts his hand on Luke's, surprised and pleased when Luke doesn't pull away.

“I thought about it, when I saw him,” Luke says. “On Yavin. Thought it was funny that there weren't any clubs for us to go to. I wasn't expecting to see him there, you know. That was a surprise. A good one. He wasn't expecting to see me either. Obviously. He didn't know about -- well, he couldn't have known about any of what happened, and I didn't know he'd defected. I don't know when that happened. Or why. He said he'd tell me later.” His hand flexes under Han's, but he doesn't pull it away. “I told him about my aunt and uncle. About Ben. He said we'd kill everyone on the _Death Star_ to make them pay for what they did. He said we'd take down the whole Empire, like we used to pretend we were doing when we were kids. He said he wanted to help me get revenge. He said he'd help make things right. And then we'd go out and see a show together. To celebrate.”

He sucks in a labored breath, reaching up to swipe the back of his hand across his cheek, leaving behind only a smear of wetness from the tears jostled loose by the motion. “It never occurred to us that he wouldn't make it back from the _Death Star_ run. Either of us. He was two years older than me, born on the next farm over. I'd known him my whole life. He was always there. That was the way it was. That's the way I thought it'd always be.”

Another angry swipe of his hand, a tear dripping onto his tunic in the process, another clinging to the line of his jaw. Luke reaches up and wipes it away. “It’s not _fair_ that he's gone. I know that sound stupid, but it's -- it should've been me instead, if it had to be one of us. Not him. I don't have anybody left. No one to miss me. He does. His parents. His cousin Gavin. His whole family, aunts and uncles and stuff. Some off-world, I think. Not just on Tatooine.”

Han frowns, the thought of Luke not making it back alive making his stomach drop, which makes him grumpy. “Look, kid --”

“I need to tell them,” Luke interrupts. “His family. They need to know. That he's gone. That he died a hero.”

He died a nameless soldier in a battle that would've been the end of the Rebellion if it had gone even a little bit differently, could've been forgotten in a week or two, had it not been for Leia’s bravery and Luke's unbelievable shot, but Han keeps that to himself, instead squeezing Luke's hand hard enough to get the guy to look at him. “For what it's worth,” he says, “Chewie’d be pretty unhappy if it'd been you who didn't come back from that run. He likes you, y'know. The princess, too. She's awful fond of you.”

“She hardly knows me,” Luke says.

“Yeah, and?”

“And --” Luke gestures angrily, tipping his chin up to look at the dim glowbulbs hanging from exposed wire overhead, their light reflecting the tears bright in his eyes, clinging to his lashes. “Biggs has a _family_ waiting for him, Han. His mom and dad. I don't --” The words stick, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “I don't have anybody. It's not fair that he's -- it's not _fair.”_

His voice breaks and he leans away from Han, curling in on himself and covering his eyes with his free hand as he breaks down and starts to cry in earnest, the fingers of his other hand clammy under Han's, clenching with each shuddering breath he takes. Han keeps his mouth shut, quiet as Luke cries, keeping vigil in the empty room yawning around them, ready to glare away anyone who darkens the door who isn't Chewbacca or Leia or Wedge. Maybe not even Wedge, the commander who survived where Luke's buddy didn't probably not the best person to comfort Luke when Luke’s down and out like he is. Hard to know. Doesn't matter, either, no one coming in before Luke's gotten himself at least somewhat under control, his breathing choppy but starting to even out, his eyes puffy and red as he slips off to nick a rag from the kitchen, mopping himself up as he returns to the table and sits down. 

“Thanks,” he says, “for listening.”

“'Course,” Han says. “I’ve been in your seat before, more times than I care to count. Don't envy you goin’ through it, now.”

Luke sniffles, rubbing the rag over his nose. “I don't want it to be real,” he says.

“Yeah, kid. I know.”

“He would've been nice to that dancer,” Luke says. “Biggs would’ve. He would’ve talked to her, told her a joke or something. He knew how to do that, without being creepy. Talk to people. He was nice. To everyone.” Another swipe of the rag. “I loved him.”

“That makes a difference,” Han tells him. “For what it's worth.”

“Doesn't feel like it does.”

“Nah. Difference ain't for you, that's why.” Han nudges him in the leg with the toe of his boot. “Drinkin’ won't help, either, but it might help you get it all out on the table, ‘stead’a keepin’ it in where it’ll cause you trouble later on. Does for me, anyway. Could go back into town, if you want. Find something worth losin’ a few braincells over.”

Luke shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says, “but I need to get back to the others, help out with our next attack, if I can. I'm not the best at strategy, but --”

“Don’t have to, you know,” Han says. “Nobody'll give you shit for takin’ a minute to be upset, lettin’ ‘em handle their war on their own. Ain't something they haven't all gone through at some point or another. They'll get it.”

“No, I know that,” Luke says, “but I -- I could use the distraction. I don't want to think about it. Thinking about it hurts.” His voice cracks, a fresh tear dripping from his eyelashes onto his cheek. He wipes it away with his sleeve, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Han says. “I’ll come with you, if you like, do what I can to help out. Get the best strategic minds among the brass together, you won't get a damn one who thinks like a smuggler, and the way they’re goin’, they’re gonna _need_ a smuggler. Can't send Chewie over in my place, either, don't think anyone here understands Shyriiwook.”

“I'd like to,” Luke says. “If you think I can learn it.”

“Sure. It ain't all that hard,” Han tells him. He pushes himself to his feet, stretching the tightness from his back as he does. “Tell you what. Let's go see what your princess is up to, then I'll get Chewie to come along with us for that drink, teach you some’a the basics of his language. It's easier to learn when you ain't sober, I’ll tell you that.”

Luke breathes out what might've been a chuckle in a different moment. “That sounds good,” he says. “Thank you, Han. For -- this. For everything.”

Han grins at him, embarrassed and pleased. “Do me a favor,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “save your sincerity for when I'm drunk. I ain’t tackling that sober.”

Luke smiles. It's small and sad, but genuine. Best thing Han’s seen all day. “All right,” he says. “I can do that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Notes_ :  
I lost a friend of mine on Friday. He was two years younger than me; young. Sweetest, funniest man you can imagine. We were going to go strip-club hopping the next time I was in town for a visit. We wrote fanfiction together on Xanga, back in the day. He was my friend, and I loved him. 

I wrote this in its entirety on my mobile while drinking and learning that I don't grieve gracefully. I don't know if either the alcohol or the writing helped. I don’t know if Luke cared about the loss of his childhood friend and his family -- they certainly don’t show him upset over them in canon -- but I struggle to believe that he _didn’t._ I can’t imagine how it would feel to suffer that much loss in a single day. Don’t want to, either.

I had a colleague look after me when I needed it last Friday, before I even knew I needed it. I wrote Han doing as he does in this story because I want to remember, so that I can be like my colleague if ever the time comes for me to. And it’s not in the story, but I drank for three solid days after. It did no good. No good whatsoever.

My friend’s name was Warren and he mattered to me. It matters to me that you know that.


End file.
